


A Midwinter Promise

by reginalds



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23827039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginalds/pseuds/reginalds
Summary: With a smile on his face, Bilbo guided their ponies towards Hobbiton, babbling about the history of the area before falling into a contemplative silence as they rode.So little of the landscape had changed, but Bilbo knew that he himself had changed so much as to be unrecognizable to the Hobbits they rode past, those who were out lazily tilling the fields, or napping amongst the new clover.He was riding a pony, for Durin’s sake! He was riding a pony shoulder-to-shoulder with Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thror, son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain, and Bilbo’s husband.Bilbo had left the Shire a hapless burglar chasing after thirteen dwarves who were riding to their deaths in dragon-flame and gold-sickness, and he was returning with their King. He was older and wiser, and a burglar who had stolen the heart of the King’s mountain and then the heart of the King himself.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 11
Kudos: 182
Collections: Safe Home 2020





	A Midwinter Promise

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is the second installment of a collection of multi-fandom “Safe Home” stories I’ve been working on, this one for a fandom I’ve never written for before! Again, sending love to all, and the hope that these stories provide comfort in an uncertain time. 
> 
> Epigraph is from Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s seasonal correspondence poems with Ross Gay. You can read the rest of the exchange here: https://orionmagazine.org/article/letters-from-two-gardens/

_I cannot explain the click-step of beetles.  
You are on your own for that. I grew up with patience  
for soil and stars. Lace and pyrite. I believe  
in an underworld littered with gems.  
In another life, I have to._

Aimee Nezhukumatathil

The first year that they were married, Thorin made Bilbo a promise at the winter solstice, that one summer they would travel back to the Shire to celebrate midsummer with Bilbo’s kin. They’d travel without a retinue, he promised, sleeping on the ground beside each other in the great forests of Middle Earth, until the rolling green hills of the Shire were beneath their feet once more, and there were honey cakes and Longbottom Leaf for all.

He sealed the promise with a circlet of fresh snowdrops, plucked from the royal gardens, and a silver bead, crafted by his own hand, that he twined into Bilbo’s hair. Then he took his husband to bed, where they were warm and happy in the King’s chambers of stone warmed by the great furnaces of the Dwarves.

+

Five years after his promise, the winter winds that reached Erebor were wickedly cold. They brought with them heavy snow that fell thickly over the mountain for days, halting trade with Laketown as snow drifts smothered the roads. The winds brought tongues of ice as well, which froze the beards of the Dwarves, and the toes of their Hobbit.

“Do I have to go?” Bilbo asked Dori, as the Dwarf helped him dress him for the midwinter celebrations. “It’s far too cold for a ball! Why don’t we just cancel the whole blasted thing and stay in near our hearths where we can warm our feet and fingers?”

At his side, Thorin huffed out a low laugh, and Bilbo turned to him to continue his complaint, but the words died in his throat when he caught sight of his husband in his midwinter best. He saw Thorin in his royal finery nearly every day, but midwinter was sacred to the dwarves, and the clothes they wore were special. Dori had made them new clothes this year, and the deep blue shirt he’d made for Thorin was embroidered with silver thread that shone across his broad chest. And then there was the ceremonial armor, which was intricately engraved with the tale of their adventure to wrest Erebor from Smaug’s clutches: polished so it shone like moonlight, and set with rough chunks of turquoise at the elbows. 

Bilbo had his own outfit, that Dori was in their quarters to help him into, because it was fussy, with many layers of undershirts and silk waistcoats and overcoats and starched collars and silver buttons set with bright chips of turquoise to match Thorin’s. He felt rather smart when he wore it, and he liked the way Thorin’s eyes lingered on him, but it was bloody cold, and Dori had gotten some damn fool idea into his head to decorate the ballroom with ice sculptures for the midwinter ball.

Grumbling, Bilbo sipped at his tea, and raised his arms as Dori held up his overcoat, transferring the delicate teacup from one hand to the other as he slipped into the velvet coat.

“There we are,” Dori said, “not too shabby, if I do say so myself. For a Hobbit.”

Bilbo frowned at him, and Thorin put a guiding hand between Dori’s shoulder blades, moving him deftly out of their apartments, and closing the door firmly behind him. He returned to Bilbo’s side, picking up the circlet of snowdrops that Ori had woven from flowers plucked from fresh the greenhouses.

He kissed Bilbo tenderly on the brow and settled the flower crown among his curls, tucking a wayward strand behind his ear.

“What promise would you ask of me this year?” He asked, sitting in an armchair and drawing Bilbo between his legs.

Bilbo liked midwinter. He liked that it meant as much to the Dwarves as the Shire’s sprightly midsummer celebrations had meant to him as a tween. They had a sweet tradition between lovers, where the elder promised the younger something new each year. A midwinter promise, made under that heady solstice moon, was sacred, and something the Dwarves took as seriously as dragons.

Humming softly, Bilbo curled his fingers around the thick braids in Thorin’s hair and thought about the promises he’d extracted from his husband in previous years. The fine set of china he’d had his heart set on one year; the school for Dwarrows he’d visited that had received funding from the royal coffers; the simple breakfast Thorin had made for him in bed.

As he thought, he imagined the winds outside, smothering the mountain in deepest winter, roaring and blustering about the peaks of the mountain with ice and snow. And he imagined the Shire, the velvet softness of new grass, the sweet smell of mud in the roads as they thawed, the bright banks of new flowers that popped up across the fields.

“I think…” he said slowly, “I think I’d like you to fulfill that promise you made me years ago. I’d like you to take me to the Shire for midsummer. I’d like to show you the Shire in full bloom.”

“Midsummer,” Thorin repeated, and he smiled, his eyes creasing at the edges. He leaned forward and brushed his nose against Bilbo’s and then dipped his head for a kiss. “I think that can be arranged.”

“We should plan to arrive when it’s strawberry season,” Bilbo said, eagerly. “Oh, the tiger lilies are blooming by then, and they make the fields near Bree look like they’re on fire. I’ll cook for you, too: the way I never get to here. Bombur rarely ever lets me into the kitchens, you know, although I never put his things out of order, and I’ll maintain until my dying day that the fire was Fili’s fault entirely. And I should say there’ll be a selection of fresh pipe weed we can try, you know how it gets stale on the journey east.” He rapped Thorin on the shoulder gently, and his husband nodded, looking amused.

“Oh, and I should like to see Drogo and Primula’s lad, Frodo,” Bilbo continued, pensively. “Word is he’s growing up to be quite the adventurous Hobbit, you know. Perhaps he could come and stay with us for some of his schooling. And we’ll have to stay with the Elves, of course. We _will_ ,” he admonished Thorin when he grimaced. “We simply must. I have a standing invitation to supper with Elrond of Rivendell, and I shan’t give it up for the world. Not even for you, my dear. Oh! And the dancing at midsummer! I’ll have to teach you the steps!”

In front of him, Thorin laughed and stood, drawing Bilbo towards him, and clasping their hands. “One celebration at a time, hmm?” He raised their folded hands to kiss Bilbo’s knuckles. “I promise to bring you to the Shire for midsummer this year, and to eat whatever you put in front of me, and to learn whichever dance steps you wish. But come, if we’re any later for the celebrations Dori will eat his hat.”

“He’ll probably eat it anyway,” Bilbo said. “You know how he is.”

Thorin took his hand, adjusted the snowdrops at his temples, and drew Bilbo from their quarters through the great mountain, to the hall at its center, which was so grand its ceiling disappeared from sight. The walls were strung with crystalline lamps that refracted the light like diamonds, and the room was thronged with Thorin’s people, hale and hearty, and full of midwinter cheer.

There were shouts when they entered, and a ceremonial first dance with the rest of the royal family, where Kili steered his blushing partner into Bilbo and Thorin quite on purpose, and then spent the rest of the dance trying to avoid his mother’s wrath. When they were done dancing, Thorin cued the musicians and the dancefloor was flooded with Dwarves and Dwarrows young and old, their joyful voices reaching the ceiling itself.

Bilbo went with Thorin as he made his rounds, speaking with each of his ministers in turn and wishing them well. He directed them towards the buffet table when the ministers had all been greeted, where Bombur was stood in his tall chef’s hat, looking red-cheeked and immensely proud of himself.

As well he should be: the table was laid with enough treats to make even the stoutest of Hobbits proud, and Bilbo cheerfully filled up a plate with everything Bombur recommended and then some, peppering him with questions as he went about what he’d used in each sauce, and what might pair well with what.

It was a long, beautiful night, as it was each year. There was a puppet show in one corner, with Bifur’s beautiful carved toys, and Bofur’s jovial narration. Ori was complimented roundly on the neat place cards he’d made for everyone, with their swooping calligraphy and pretty drawings and blushed so hard it looked like he might pop. Balin and Dwalin tried to out-drink each other and fell asleep peacefully in the corner of the hall, until they were roused by Nori and made their tottering ways to bed. And in the middle of it all, Fili and Kili were bright, shining beacons of life and light, laughing and singing and drinking and causing great mischief throughout the night.

It was past dawn before they all went off to bed, sleepy and full of good food and good ale, and Bilbo let Thorin undress him reverentially in their bedroom, before he fell face forward onto the bed and wriggled beneath the blankets to the sound of his husband’s laughter.

+

In the intervening months between midwinter and midsummer, Bilbo exchanged letters with Hamfast Gamgee, who took care of Bag End in his absence, and frequently sent amusing stories about the ways in which he and his young son Samwise had thwarted the Sackville-Bagginses that week.

Bilbo was fairly sure he was imagining it, but it seemed that the letters from the Shire brought with them the scent of fresh air: of newly mown grass, and something just-baked and steaming on the sideboard. He liked to raise them to his nose and inhale, and then close his eyes and imagine how bright the flowers would be when they reached the Shire.

He told Thorin his plans over supper as the world outside of the mountain thawed, spinning tales of midsummer celebrations of old, and describing all the things he wanted to see and eat and do when they were back in Hobbiton; back in Bag End.

“I worry that if we go back you won’t ever want to leave,” Thorin said one night, his voice light and teasing, but Bilbo knew that being left behind was an old, buried fear.

“I miss my home,” Bilbo told him honestly, “of course I miss the Shire, it was my first home! But I have a second home too, with you, and a whole family here. I wouldn’t change that for all the midsummer honey cakes in the world.” He leaned across their table to kiss Thorin on his nose, before settling back in front of his own plate. “This is home now,” he said simply. “And I will miss it when we’re gone.”

Thorin held Bilbo’s hands over the table where they were sharing their evening meal, and brought them to his lips and then to his brows, bowing his royal head over Bilbo’s small Hobbit hands, like they were the most precious things in the mountain, and studded with gems.

+

They left Erebor when the rivers that wound around the base of the no-longer-lonely mountain were swollen with snowmelt and the rest of the world smelled like mud and new grass. They left with a retinue of Dwarves, including Dwalin, who rode at the head of their company, his eyes sharp on the road ahead.

They brought with them a wagon packed with supplies, and ponies clad in Thorin’s family colors, blue and silver on their bridles and saddles. Bilbo rode beside Thorin, and the mud on the road splashed up and dried in matching spots across their traveling cloaks.

They stopped in Laketown, sturdily rebuilt and heaving with energy as it came back to life in spring. Bard the Bowman welcomed them into his own home, fed them like kings, and spoke with them long into the night about adventures of old.

From Laketown, they followed the road through the land as it bloomed with banks of flowers. Each forest they rode through was more green, the buds of new leaves and flowers darkening and spreading into fine canopies above the path.

Bilbo found he quite liked traveling when they weren’t being chased by things likely to kill them, with certain death at the teeth of a dragon on the horizon. He and Thorin often rode quietly side by side as the company shouted around them, and Bilbo was glad to overlay old, bloody memories of travel with new memories of good meals by the side of the road with good company and the scent of fresh flowers.

They reached Rivendell in good time, riding single file and humble through the Elvish forest. The moss on the ground was soft as velvet, and the birch trees rose silver and proud around them, until the path led them to their first view of Rivendell, ensconced in great trees and grey stone.

Elrond welcomed them warmly, and invited them to join him at his table. Thorin grumbled at Bilbo’s pleasure at the fine clothes they were given to change into, and the warm meal that awaited them was greeted with great suspicion by the company of Dwarves, apart from Dwalin, who gritted his teeth and ate his mushroom stew with a stormy brow.

Bilbo sat at Elrond’s elbow, and after they ate there was music and singing, and at the end of the night he followed Thorin sleepily to their chambers with his mind full of haunting melodies, and his eyes full of starlight.

“The Elves should visit Erebor at midwinter,” Thorin grumbled as they undressed. “Then we could show them a proper party. Give them a roast, and some real ale. None of this fancy fruit wine.”

Bilbo hummed, and turned his cheek happily against the silk pillows. “The fruit wine is plenty potent,” he said. “It sneaks up on you.” Thorin harrumphed, and tripped over his own boots.

It was with some regret that Bilbo bade Elrond and Rivendell farewell. He turned so many times on his pony to see the Elven city disappearing into the forest that he was nearly unseated, and had to be caught by Dwalin and Thorin.

They rode for some days beyond the great forest of the Elves, Bilbo humming their songs all the while, and parted ways with Dwalin and the rest of the company of Dwarves near Bree, with promises to meet them again in a fortnight.

With a smile on his face, Bilbo guided their ponies towards Hobbiton, babbling about the history of the area before falling into a contemplative silence as they rode.

So little of the landscape had changed, but Bilbo knew that he himself had changed so much as to be unrecognizable to the Hobbits they rode past, those who were out lazily tilling the fields, or napping amongst the new clover.

He was riding a pony, for Durin’s sake! He was riding a pony shoulder-to-shoulder with Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thror, son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain, and Bilbo’s husband.

Bilbo had left the Shire a hapless burglar chasing after thirteen dwarves who were riding to their deaths in dragon-flame and gold-sickness, and he was returning with their King. He was older and wiser, and a burglar who had stolen the heart of the King’s mountain and then the heart of the King himself.

He had left a Baggins of Bag End, and returned a Baggins of Erebor, friend to Kings and Elves, wizards and eagles and men. A barrel-rider, a riddle-maker, an orc-slayer. He chuckled, and at Thorin’s inquisitive look, he smiled and nudged their ponies closer together.

“I’m thinking of what my parents would say if they could see me now. My father would roll in his grave if he knew what I’d been up to!”

“And your mother?” Thorin asked, smiling indulgently at Bilbo’s uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh,” Bilbo said sighing. “My mother would be terribly proud. And spitting mad I was the Baggins who got to face down a dragon, and not she.”

Thorin hummed, and looked away, across the fields and gently rolling hills. “I should have liked to meet your mother,” he said, and Bilbo nudged their ponies together again until their knees knocked.

The Shire looked as it always had: the new grass, which was leaping from the muddy ground beneath the warm sunlight was so green it looked like the hills were shining. Bilbo knew from experience as a tween that it was soft enough to sleep on, or made a fine bed in which to tumble about with a partner, if you were so inclined.

The rivers and streams were filled to their banks and burbling merrily, and the bridges were freshly repaired, fragrant with slabs of sturdy pine, and their ponies’ hooves rang out on them as they crossed.

There were more Hobbits out and about as they got closer to Hobbiton: working in their gardens, hanging clothes on lines strung in their yards, trimming hedges, snoozing or smoking or chatting on their stoops, everyone in a flurry of activity for midsummer.

They regarded the Dwarven ponies with some curiosity, and then a bit more curiosity when they realized that one of the riders, though dressed quite like a Dwarf, was in fact a Hobbit, and then with far more curiosity when it was discovered that the Hobbit was one of their own: Bilbo Baggins of Bag End.

By the time they’d reached the familiar, crooked path that rose through Hobbiton and culminated at the round, green door of Bag End, they’d acquired nearly a dozen hangers-on, who followed their ponies on foot and shouted questions and sang songs, so that Bilbo arrived at his front door at the head of a parade, and greatly startled Hamfast and Samwise Gamgee, who stood in the garden, waiting to welcome them.

It took some time to convince the parade to go home, along with some loud threats from Hamfast, and finally an even louder declaration from Bilbo that there was simply no food in the pantry, and certainly no tea, so there was no way he would be inviting anyone in, as he couldn’t imagine being such a rude host.

“I shall see you all at midsummer! ‘Til then!” He called, and shut his front gate with a resounding crash, slumping against it while Hamfast chuckled at him.

“The missus has laid out quite a spread for you, Master Bilbo,” he said in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Give those ponies here, I’ll get them settled while you change out of your things and have your tea.”

“You’ll join us, Hamfast?” Bilbo asked, and hid his smile as the stout Hobbit puffed out his chest and said that he and Missus Gamgee would be happy to.

Hamfast took the ponies and Samwise, who was small and tousle-haired and silent, leaving Bilbo and Thorin in front of the door. Bilbo laid his hand on the knob, and sighed.

“I feel I should apologize,” Thorin murmured at his back. “It’s too late, of course, but I never did say I was sorry for interrupting your life and your dinner with our madness and our dragons. Etiquette dictates that I ought to apologize… but I can’t quite bring myself to. I’m sure I wouldn’t be here today if we hadn’t so rudely interrupted your supper, and tempted you with our adventure.”

“Don’t apologize,” Bilbo told him fiercely. “I am glad to have had madness and dragons in my life, because they brought me you.” When Thorin frowned at him, the way he did when memories of the gold sickness tugged at the corners of his mind, Bilbo stood on his toes and kissed him soundly.

To their right, there was a faint shriek, and the sound of someone tumbling from a hedge where they’d hidden themselves. Sighing, Bilbo pecked Thorin on the tip of his nose, and opened the door.

“Oh,” he said, softly, letting the door swing wide and taking a small step in.

It was Bag End. It was home. Warm and cozy and dry – he could see from where he stood at the door that Hamfast had lit a fire in the study. The wood floors were polished until they shone; the pictures and the mantels were dusted; the windows were flung wide, to let in the sounds and smells of early summer; and there was the scent of something truly delectable wafting down the halls from the kitchen.

Bilbo sighed happily, and Thorin closed the door behind them, following as Bilbo moved slowly down the halls, peeking his head into one room after the other and seeing that yes, his books were still there, and the armchair was still tilted just so toward the fire, and yes, the yellow coverlet was still on the bed in that guest room, and the green coverlet was still on the bed in this one, and there was a generous tea spread across the kitchen table, and freshly laundered clothes in the bedroom.

He sat down in his bedroom armchair with a thump, and eased his pack from his back, leaned his walking stick against the wall beside him, and sighed. “Oh, it is nice to be home.”

Thorin moved slowly around the room, inspecting the books on the shelves, and the objects that joined them – special bits of rock and glass, portraits of good friends and relatives – seeming content to explore until Bilbo’s stomach rumbled loudly, and he laughed.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s change and have our tea. I think Hamfast has roasted two whole chickens for the occasion.”

“Well, Missus Gamgee has, at least,” Bilbo said. “I hope she’ll come for tea, I do like that woman.” He roused himself from the armchair and pulled open his wardrobe, delighted to find his old clothes freshly cleaned and mended. He dressed himself quickly, more like a Hobbit than he had in years, and caught Thorin’s eye as he finished buttoning a light green waistcoat over his shirt.

“You will not remove these, I hope,” Thorin said, moving close to him, and winding a hand into Bilbo’s hair, where an intricate braid had been woven with silver beads carved by Thorin’s hand, and set with the tiniest specks of lapis lazuli. “I must have some reminder that you are mine.”

“I am yours in whatever clothes I wear,” Bilbo said, turning his head to press an indulgent kiss to Thorin’s fingers. “Come on, come on, let’s have our tea.” He slipped out of Thorin’s grasp and was halfway through the door before his husband had registered that he’d gone, though he was joined in the kitchen some moments later. Missus Gamgee had indeed joined them for tea, and her warm, nut-brown face creased into a great smile when she saw Bilbo.

They had a raucous tea that stretched for hours, as Bilbo retold the stories of all of his adventures to the Gamgees. He’d told them in letters already, but there was so much more to tell that he remembered as he spun them once again with Thorin by his side, providing all the facts and figures he forgot.

They ate until the table was clear, and Bilbo had had so much tea he felt ready to burst. It was late in the afternoon by the time he showed the Gamgees to the door, nearly time for supper, and he thanked them both profusely for the tea, for the food in the pantry and the cold cellar, and for keeping Bag End so tidy and full of warmth, while he was away across the world with his King under the mountain.

The sky over the treetops was darkening with dusk and with heavy clouds, and they eyed them with some trepidation from the front step. Hamfast sniffed the air, and shook his head, jamming his hat more tightly over his hair.

“Looks like rain,” he told them. “Here’s hoping it won’t spoil the midsummer celebrations. That’d be a hell of a thing, wouldn’t it, if you came all this way for the rains to come and there to be no party after all!”

“Oh, don’t say it, don’t say it,” Bilbo laughed, swatting at Hamfast’s shoulder, and smiling at Missus Gamgee as she hustled her husband off his stoop. “Get home safely the pair of you. And no more talk of rain!”

He shut the door behind them as they moved off down the lane, and leaned happily against the door. In front of him, Thorin, slumped against the wall and seemingly exhausted by the energetic hospitality of Hobbits, yawned.

“Buck up,” Bilbo said, smiling. “It’s nearly time for supper.”

Thorin groaned, and Bilbo laughed, shooing his husband along the familiar hallways of Bag End to the study. They added more wood to the fire, and sank into armchairs where they sat in contented silence until Bilbo’s stomach growled again, and Thorin rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“Durin save me from the appetites of Hobbits,” he said, and Bilbo swatted at his shoulder.

“I didn’t hear you complaining about my appetites last night,” he said, primly, and left his husband sputtering in the study as he drifted peaceably into the kitchen.

Hamfast had stocked the pantry until it was full to bursting, and he allowed himself a moment among the shelves of fresh produce and crusty breads. He knew that in the cold cellar there would be cuts of meat from the local butchers’, and salmon wrapped in ice and salt; hard cheeses wrapped in cloth and softer cheeses wrapped in birch bark stripped from young trees. He trailed his fingers over a basket of plump, beefsteak tomatoes on the vine, and a bowl of ripe peaches; inhaled the aromas of a bunch of spices – pinches of anise and chili peppers, dried thyme and rosemary, that Hamfast had left in small jars on a high shelf.

He took an armful of potatoes, moving slowly and humming to himself as he did, and plucked a handful of sage and thyme from the garden. He picked up a round of sharp cheese with a waxy rind and brought it all out to the kitchen, before going back into the pantry for leafy greens and a jug of cream, and finally, a loaf of crusty bread.

He laid out the spoils on his kitchen table, and then remembered dessert and ducked back into the pantry where he liberated a dozen eggs, and a basket of fresh berries, soft and sweet, and plucked by clever Hobbit fingers from the raspberry bushes that grew wild in the fields and hedges throughout the Shire.

It wasn’t that the food in Erebor was bad – quite the opposite in fact – but it was heavy and meaty, and stuck to your ribs in a way that kept you warm throughout the winter and into spring, and made you sleepy. It was just that even in the height of summer it was rare to see fresh produce in the mountain. And Bombur ruled his kitchen with an iron fist, and rarely let Bilbo in to help with the cooking.

Bilbo was chopping garlic and onion when Thorin wandered in from the study. He sat quietly at the table, and took up a paring knife and the potatoes amiably enough when Bilbo set them in front of him and asked him to peel them. They worked together peacefully, Thorin singing lowly under his breath in Khuzdul as he peeled and sliced potatoes thinly.

Bilbo fried the onions and garlic with a knob of butter and added his chopped herbs, hiding his smile in his hair as the sage scented the kitchen and Thorin looked up and sniffed the air with interest. He laid the sliced potatoes out neatly in a scalloped pattern on a tray and poured the cream mixture over and between the layers, laughing out loud when Thorin laid his chin on his shoulder and watched the proceedings with interest.

When the pan was in the oven, Bilbo cleaned the potato peels from the table and separated whites and yolks, then put a large bowl of egg whites and a whisk in front of his husband. “Whisk that until it looks like clouds,” he instructed Thorin, and turned his attention to the fresh fruit and berries he’d pulled from the pantry, washing them carefully and slicing the strawberries neatly into trim quarters.

He made tea while Thorin labored over the egg whites at the table, taking a moment to roll up his sleeves and toss his thick hair over one shoulder while he whisked.

“Let me,” Bilbo murmured, and Thorin stilled to let Bilbo unwind a length of thin leather from his wrist, and ducked his head to let his husband tie the thick weight of his hair neatly at the nape of his neck. Bilbo caught one of the slimmest silver beads in Thorin’s hair in one hand and curled his fingers around the warm metal, smiling with the memory of winding the bead into Thorin’s hair on their wedding day while Thorin smiled down at him.

He let the bead go, and kissed Thorin sweetly, then turned to the kettle, which was whistling on the hob. He poured a pot of tea and found the old tea cozy tucked in with kitchen rags beside the sink. He poured them each a cup in his mother’s china, thinking only briefly about how important the china cups and saucers, plates and silver had been to him before he went haring off after a mad company of Dwarves on their way to confront a dragon.

Thorin took a break from whisking to have a sip of his tea and then returned to it, presenting the bowl to Bilbo just a moment later, the stiff peaks of egg white reaching toward the ceiling.

“Perfect,” Bilbo said, and spooned in sugar, folding the mixture carefully before scooping it out on trays to slot into the oven. Thorin groaned aloud when he opened the oven to slide in the merengues and the smell of the potatoes bubbling away inside wafted out.

“It’s nearly ready,” Bilbo assured him. “Will you set the table?”

Thorin did, with more enthusiasm than knowledge, and Bilbo smiled at the salad forks, soup spoons, and butter knives he laid out, along with cups of fresh water from the well, and mugs of ale from a small barrel Hamfast had brought and left in the cold cellar.

Bilbo ladled gratin onto their plates alongside a salad pulled fresh from the garden, and they sat next to each other and ate their supper, while Bilbo kept an eye on the merengues in the oven.

When they were done eating, he whipped a bowl of fresh cream until it was pillowy soft, and assembled the pavlova carefully, studding it with fruit and cream. He set it on the windowsill to admire it, and made more tea while Thorin washed the dishes, then served them plates of dessert.

They took the plates from the kitchen to the garden, where they sat side by side on a bench in front of Bag End, their elbows knocking each time they took a bite of their dessert. Bilbo snuggled into Thorin’s warmth at his side, and watched the dusky clouds above the treetops with distant worry.

They could hear the shouts and clangs of workers in the great field below, assembling the tents and tables for the midsummer festival, and lanterns sparked to life across Hobbiton as the night deepened. Thorin fetched second helpings of pavlova and their pipes, filling both pipes with fresh Longbottom Leaf and lighting them carefully.

They smoked and ate their dessert in companionable silence, watching the lights glow across Hobbiton, calling soft evening greetings to any Hobbits who passed by, and blowing smoke rings across the garden. At last, they got up to go inside, and in the distance, there was a faint rumble of thunder, and a lick of lightning, and Bilbo frowned.

“Come in to bed,” Thorin coaxed, as Bilbo lingered to glare at the bad weather in the distance. “Come in, dear heart, you can’t frown the weather into submission.”

“I can try,” Bilbo retorted, but he turned, and followed Thorin inside, allowing himself to be bundled into bed while Thorin stoked the fire in the bedroom, turning the embers over until they glowed. Bilbo, full of good food and the particular comfort and warmth that came with being home, curled into his husband’s side as Thorin joined him beneath the covers. And they slept.

+

Bilbo woke for just a moment in the middle of the night, as thunder crashed overhead, and the windows were illuminated briefly with a great crack of lightning. He woke from a dream where he was back on the mountain among thunder giants, terrified of losing Fili and Kili, and then of losing himself, and woke with a start, his heart pounding in his throat.

At his side, Thorin murmured sleep-soft words, and twined an arm around Bilbo’s waist, drawing him back into the warm space beside him in bed. Bilbo subsided at his touch, and closed his eyes against the sound of lashing rain.

+

When Bilbo woke again, the world outside the window was grey, and Thorin was sitting up at his side, with a book open in his lap. Bilbo stirred into wakefulness slowly, hummed at the feeling of Thorin’s hand in his hair, then came fully awake at the sound of rain drumming steadily on the eaves above the windows.

“Is it raining?” He whispered, and Thorin nodded. “Like cats and dogs?” He asked, and Thorin frowned.

“What would they have to do with anything?”

Bilbo laughed, and slowly untangled himself from Thorin’s clutches. The world outside the window was terribly wet – the rain was indeed pouring down, and there were rivers already, running through all the tidy garden beds and flooding the lane in front of Bag End. The sky overhead was dark grey: the grey of a rainstorm that was there to stay.

“Bugger,” Bilbo swore. He tugged his dressing gown on over his pyjamas haphazardly and hurried through Bag End to the front door, swearing again as he stepped outside directly into a puddle that splashed cold water up his ankles. The garden was mostly mud by this point, and he splashed through it with small exclamations, grumbling as the rain flattened his hair to his head and tracked down his neck and his back.

The lane outside was muddy and he could see far beyond, in the great field at the heart of Hobbiton, the midsummer tent was sagging in the mud.

“Blast it all!” Bilbo cursed, and then jumped when someone hurried by on the lane, more mud than Hobbit.

“Master Baggins?” The muddy Hobbit asked, and pushed their hat out of their eyes. “What are you doing in the rain?”

“Hamfast!” Bilbo shouted, and they both jumped a foot in the air and then pretended they hadn’t when thunder crashed overhead. “Have you been down to the tent? What’s the word?”

“Nothing good, m’afraid. Last I heard, they said they’ll need to cancel everything, and they’re telling everyone to stay indoors until the storm blows over. Old Missus Bolger said the Party Tree was struck by lightning early this morning and there was a little fire.”

“A fire!” Bilbo cried, and had to grab on to the fence to remain upright as a gust of wind whistled down the lane.

“Aye, the rain put it out soon enough. And I’m sure sorry to not have our midsummer party, but it’s been terribly dry all spring, and this rain will do us a world of good.” He beamed, water running down his face through the gaps in his straw hat, and Bilbo gaped at him.

“Hamfast, I’m quite sure you are mad,” he said slowly, and Hamfast laughed, and then waved at someone behind Bilbo – Thorin, it turned out, when Bilbo turned to see.

“That may be, Mister Baggins, but I’m not the one standing in my garden in my dressing gown,” he said, and Bilbo looked down at his feet, where he was indeed standing in his garden ankle-deep in mud.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said, tugging his dressing gown more tightly across his middle, and jumped when Thorin’s warm hands settled on his shoulders, and his husband held an umbrella over the two of them, that kept the worst of the rain off their heads.

“Come inside,” he rumbled. “Dori will never forgive me if I let you catch your death in the Shire.”

“It’s just,” Bilbo said, and gestured in vain at the rest of Hobbiton; at Hamfast, grinning through the rain, and the sagging midsummer tent, the field at the center of their village turned to mud. “Midsummer.”

“We’ll have to celebrate on our own,” Thorin said gently. “We could have more pavlova.”

Bilbo laughed, and wiped at his nose. “Yes, yes, alright.” He bade Hamfast goodbye and encouraged him to get on home to Missus Gamgee and his wee ones, and allowed Thorin to wrap an arm around his shoulders and guide him back inside Bag End, where he stood in the foyer shivering and dripping. Thorin closed the umbrella with a snap and hung it on the coat rack, then tutted at Bilbo and pulled his sodden dressing gown from his shoulders, hanging it over a low chair.

“You’re soaked,” he admonished Bilbo gently, who nodded, his teeth chattering. “Come here,” Thorin said, very softly, and unhooked the buttons at the throat of Bilbo’s nightshirt and pulled it over his head, mussing his hair with the collar of the shirt, and then mussing it further when Bilbo frowned at him.

“Stay there,” he warned Bilbo, disappearing briefly into the study, and returning with a warm quilt that he wrapped Bilbo’s top-half in, then undid the tie on his pyjama pants, and eased them down his legs, and rewrapped Bilbo in the quilt so tightly he could barely move his limbs, and then bundled him off down the hallway to the bathroom.

“Into the bath with you,” Thorin said. “You soak, and I’ll make us breakfast. Don’t look at me like that,” he said, chuckling at Bilbo’s look of disbelief, and leaned over to twist the taps and fill the tub with hot water and the room with steam. “I do know how to cook breakfast, dear heart.”

“I look forward to seeing it,” Bilbo said, unwinding himself from the quilt, and testing the bathwater with a toe. Thorin gave him a look, and left the door open a crack, so Bilbo could hear the soft sounds of clattering dishes and running water in the kitchen.

He folded the quilt carefully – one of his mother’s, he noted – and slipped into the bath, humming at the feel of the hot water on his cold skin. He sank into it with a reluctant sigh, and cupped a handful of water to splash over his hair, and another for his face. He selected the soap from the dish and scrubbed it through his hair thoroughly, enjoying the scent of geranium that rose into the air, and feeling the knot in his stomach at the prospect of a rainy day indoors instead of joyous midsummer celebrations loosen slightly.

It wasn’t the end of the world to not be able to see the rest of the town and drink and eat with them – he and Thorin could do the very same on their own. They might not be able to dance, or to drink the best the Prancing Pony had to offer, or eat Miss Proudfoot’s famous honey cakes and Mister Boffin’s famous oak-barrel aged hard cheeses, the ones flecked with herbs that paired so well with a bit of Missus Bracegirdle’s huckleberry jam….

No. Bilbo shook his head sternly, banishing the thought of midsummer feasts of old. There was plenty in the pantry at Bag End. They would have their own feast. And it would be just lovely. And Thorin would appreciate it just as much as any feast he’d had in Erebor, if the way he’d gone back for seconds and then thirds of pavlova had been any indication.

With his mouth set, and determined to be more cheerful about the day stuck indoors with his husband, he rinsed his hair and levered himself out of the tub, wrapping himself in a fluffy towel and leaving a track of wet footprints from the bathroom to the bedroom.

As promised, there were busy sounds of china rattling and the smell of bacon sizzling from the kitchen, and nothing smelled burnt, so he took his time dressing warmly, in a pair of wool breeches and a clean shirt and a warm waistcoat. He dried his hair carefully and then brushed it, and ducked down to brush his feet.

The rain was still smearing the bedroom windows with water, and he made sure the shutters were pulled tight against the rain and the chill, before wandering into the kitchen. True to his word, Thorin had not burned breakfast, but had instead toasted bread over the hearth fire, and fried eggs and bacon, and made them a large pot of tea. It was simple, homely food, the kind Bilbo imagined him eating while in exile, and he was grateful for it.

“Right,” he said, once they’d finished their breakfast. He stood to put the kettle back on the hob for another pot of tea, and pushed the breakfast dishes to the side. “How shall we celebrate midsummer, when we can’t go outside and frolic around the maypole?”

Thorin laughed. “I can’t imagine that there would have been much frolicking done on my end,” he said, and Bilbo huffed.

“I would have made you frolic with the rest of us Hobbits,” he told Thorin. “Well. If we can’t have a maypole, we can at least have honey cakes and lamb.”

“At least,” Thorin said, a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth at Bilbo’s serious tone, but he buttoned his lips shut at Bilbo’s fierce look.

“We’ll have honey cakes and a rack of lamb with spring vegetables,” Bilbo told him. “And perhaps a spot of apple cider, if Hamfast has left a supply in the cellar. I can make wreaths for both of us from the flowers Missus Gamgee brought, and we’ll have festivities as bright as the day is long.”

“How would you spend your morning, if it were not raining?” Thorin asked, steepling his fingers.

“Oh,” Bilbo said. “I hadn’t thought about that. We often sleep late, to conserve our energy for the rest of the day, so I most often would be in bed.”

“I like the sound of that,” Thorin said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“But!” Bilbo spluttered, “the honey cakes! The lamb!”

“It’s early yet,” Thorin said. “And the storm is still overhead. We have plenty of time to spend to ourselves before our days are claimed by midsummer.”

“Thorin!” Bilbo said, fluttering his hands at his husband. “The lamb should marinate in herbs for five hours at the _very_ least!”

“Bilbo,” his husband rumbled, leaning into his space and burying his hands into Bilbo’s hair, pulling ever-so-slightly on the marriage braid. “The _bed_.”

Bilbo snapped his mouth shut, and blinked a few times at the look on his husband’s face. “The lamb could wait, I suppose,” he said, faintly. 

“You _suppose_?” Thorin asked, drawing back with an incredulous look on his face.

“It’s really a very important component of the midsummer feast,” Bilbo said, and rapped Thorin on the shoulder when he made a face. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll come with you to bed, and if the lamb isn’t as tender as it ought to be, on your head be it!”

Rolling his eyes, Thorin leaned forward and scooped his husband into his arms, whirling them both out of the kitchen, and effectively distracting Bilbo from any thoughts of the dirty dishes still out on the kitchen table, or the herbs he’d need to collect from the sodden garden to marinate the rack of lamb.

+

It was early afternoon when they roused themselves from the bedroom, and still raining hard, thunder cracking overhead so loudly that Bilbo could feel in his bones. In the bedroom, Thorin turned sleepily under the bedclothes, and Bilbo stepped quietly out of the room, leaving him to rest.

It was so rare that Thorin got to sleep in these days – he was up all hours of the day, from earliest dawn breaking over the mountain to the velvet dark of midnight, meeting with his counselors and receiving petitions in the throne room, ruling his people with a kind hand and generous heart, devoting his time to them completely. Bilbo was glad to let him rest, and he was more than capable of putting together a fine meal on his own.

Leaving the bedroom with a soft kiss pressed into the fine hair at his husband’s temple, he opened the curtains wide in the kitchen, frowning when the gray light inside the kitchen barely changed.

It was bucketing down outside, and he rapped his knuckles at the windowpane, allowing himself a moment to mourn the fine midsummer celebrations that the rain had ruined for the Shire: the tables groaning beneath a spread of the tastiest nibbles the Shire’s best cooks had to offer, the midsummer pole wound tight with bright ribbons fluttering from the eager hands of Hobbit lads and lasses, the soft grass trampled underfoot by dozens of dancers enthusiastic and otherwise winding their way through energetic reels.

He had so wanted to show Thorin what it looked like when the Shire was out and dancing, when the tree in the field was strung with lanterns, blazing with light until dawn, but – here, he shook himself and set his shoulders – they would have just as lovely a celebration at home, right here in Bag End. They would have lamb and honey cakes, and maybe Bilbo would teach Thorin some of the best midsummer dances, and they’d take a turn from the study to the foyer and back to the kitchen, with the rain and some gentle humming for accompaniment.

His mind set, he found a cloak to cast over his head and went out into the muddy garden, moving as quickly as possible with a pair of garden shears and a basket, snipping tarragon and fresh rosemary, lemon thyme and sweet spring onions. He shook out the cloak when he was back inside and put the kettle on to boil, before fetching a rack of lamb from the cold cellar.

He hummed to himself as he worked, singing a whimsical combination of Hobbitish traveling songs, Elven hymns, and Khuzdul ballads he’d learned in Erebor, most of them Fili’s favorites and terribly bawdy because of it. He was cheerfully singing to himself in Khuzdul and rubbing butter into flour for the flaky honey cakes when Thorin poked his head into the kitchen.

“Do you have any idea what you’re singing about?” He asked, bowing his head to kiss the crown of Bilbo’s.

“Of course,” Bilbo said breezily. “Fili explained it to me in great detail.” He laughed when Thorin grumbled.

“That one will be the death of me,” he sighed, sitting down at the table and watching Bilbo’s hands moving quickly over the dough. “Is that for lunch?”

“No, this is for later.” Bilbo said, wiping at his forehead with the back of one hand, and grimacing when the action smeared dough on his eyebrows. “We can have sandwiches for lunch.”

“Would you like me to fix them?” Thorin asked, and he stood without Bilbo’s assent, going cheerfully enough into the pantry for a loaf of fresh bread, and into the cold cellar for ham and a small pot of butter and mustard. He worked quietly at Bilbo’s shoulder, his hands quick and sure on the knife as he sliced slabs of ham, and spread the bread thickly with butter and mustard, disappearing again into the pantry for a piece of sharp cheese that he sliced generously.

Bilbo finished his honey cake dough and set it aside to cool, and watched Thorin move about the kitchen, his heart aching with something that hurt, just a little, for all the small, normal moments they missed by the dint of Thorin being a busy king, and Bilbo being his consort. He wouldn’t change it for the world, but he wished, just for a moment, that they could stay in Bag End, kneading dough for dinner and assembling sandwiches for lunch while it rained enough to flood the garden outside.

He fetched plates for Thorin when the sandwiches were done, and poured tea while Thorin peered around at the shelves in the pantry, reappearing triumphant with a jar of pickles. He fished sour pickles from the jar and set them on each plate, and kissed Bilbo soundly before settling down at the table.

They talked quietly while eating, and Thorin fished more pickles from the jar to eat with his hands, settling more deeply into his chair as Bilbo poured them another cup of tea.

“I’m glad to be here with you,” Thorin said, as Bilbo pushed the sugar bowl to his side of the table. “Though I am sorry to miss your midsummer celebrations. I feel I haven’t held my end of my midwinter promise for you.”

“We’ll have a lovely time tonight,” Bilbo said, firmly. “I’ll even teach you some of the reels, and we can even have a dance.”

Thorin smiled at him. “Maybe we can come back next summer,” Thorin said, ducking his head to trace the wood grain with his forefinger. “I feel a great peace when we are in the Shire. I am glad to be here with you, in Bag End.”

“I am glad to be here with you,” Bilbo said, clasping Thorin’s hand tightly. “In Bag End, of all places. I never would have imagined we would be back here like this.”

Thorin kissed his knuckles roughly, and held on until Bilbo pulled his fingers away with a laugh to tend the dough.

+

They split up after lunch, Thorin disappearing into the study after washing the dishes, pulling a book from Bilbo’s shelves and settling into a squashy armchair by the window to read. Bilbo busied himself in the kitchen, dirtying pan after pan as he cooked. Bombur never let him cook much in the kitchens at Erebor, and it was a great pleasure to have fine Shire produce, a familiar stove, and a warm kitchen to fill with good smells.

Thorin poked his nose into the proceedings as soon as Bilbo drew the honey cakes from the oven, and hovered over his shoulder as Bilbo drizzled them with an icing made from melted butter and honey and fresh lemon juice. Bilbo relented at last to his curiosity with a warm honey cake that he broke into two for them to share, and Thorin retreated into the study with crumbs in his beard and a smile on his face.

Hamfast called soon after with a jug of sweet cider from the Prancing Pony, and his youngest, Samwise, in tow, stopping in briefly to enjoy a honey cake, and share the Gamgee’s plans for rainy day midsummer celebrations. Samwise, who had soggy flowers woven into his hair, looked at Bilbo with big, silent eyes, and hid his grin behind his father’s leg when Bilbo waved at him.

In return for the cider, Bilbo gave them a stack of fresh honey cakes wrapped in wax paper to keep them dry, and a piece of spiced dwarvish hard candy for Samwise, and waved them off down the road, imploring them to stay warm and dry for the rest of the evening. 

For afternoon tea, he carried a tea tray into the study, and they ate from a tin of iced biscuits he’d unearthed in the pantry. Thorin fetched a book of poetry he’d brought from the great library of Erebor, and read to Bilbo from the window seat in the study, while Bilbo sipped at his mint tea and dozed, his husband’s low voice wrapping around him and keeping him warm.

The rain continued apace for the rest of the afternoon, and the dark outside deepened until you could only barely see the front gate at Bag End when you pressed your nose up against the windows and stared out. The thunder had subsided, at least, leaving them with driving rain, and the occasional fork of lightning that lit up the distant sky out over Bree.

Bilbo wondered whether it was storming in Erebor, as he dragged Thorin into the kitchen to help with dinner. The Mountain didn’t experience storms the same way as the rest of the world. Every outside sound was muffled by many tons of rock, and by the constant churning, grinding, roaring, of the great furnaces and workshops of the Dwarves.

Sometimes you could only tell when it was raining or snowing or the sun was shining, because the air smelled different – wet and sweet like mud, or sharp like frost, or soft like summer light. When he noticed the smells of the weather outside, Bilbo often liked to wander through the city to the greenhouses built into the side of the mountain and windowed with great slabs of crystal. He liked to sit for hours observing the outside world, and sometimes the royal gardeners cranked open the windows for him, so he could sit and smell the rain, or the snow. He’d almost forgotten how loud thunder could be, and he was glad to be safe inside while he was being reminded.

In the kitchen, he set Thorin to stoking the fire in the hearth, and pulled out the bread dough he’d set to rise in loaf pans, sliding them into the oven to bake. The lamb followed the loaves, in a big pan of its own to catch the drippings, studded with herbs and spring onions.

They set the table simply, and Thorin disappeared for a while down the hallways of Bag End, looking in and out of the many closets and storerooms, and returning at last with a small barrel of Longbottom Leaf, and a small harp Bilbo had forgotten he’d owned. It had belonged to a distant relative, and was Hobbit-size and gilded, a fussy, pretty little instrument that looked tiny in Thorin’s careful hands.

He settled at the kitchen table to tune it, and Bilbo listened to him plucking peaceably away at the strands as he bustled around the kitchen, setting out good things to eat for their very own midsummer feast. When he pulled the lamb from the oven at last, it filled the kitchen with warm steam and a good smell, and he placed it on the crowded table for Thorin to carve as he put the finishing touches on their dessert, and seated himself at last.

“Is there any ritual you’d like to hold with?” Thorin asked. “Would you like to crown me with a circlet of rosehips?”

“I’d like that very much,” Bilbo told him primly, shaking out a napkin and tucking it into his collar. “But I’m afraid the poor rosehips are drowned outside.” He laughed, when Thorin looked like he has half a mind to soldier out into the rain to collect a small bunch. “No, no, there’s no real ritual. It’s a celebration, with plenty of talking and feasting and dancing, where all are equal and no one stands on ceremony, and no one goes hungry.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Thorin said wryly, surveying the table in front of him with a smile. “You’ve laid out a feast worthy of Bombur.”

“Wait until you see the desserts,” Bilbo told him proudly. “Now eat, please! No need to wait any longer. Will you pass me some lamb?”

Thorin did, with a healthy ladleful of gravy, and some roasted tomatoes and stewed carrots too, while Bilbo helped himself to a slice of warm bread spread thickly with butter, and a salad made with watercress and sharp cheese and sweet peaches. They ate slowly, sipping at dandelion fizz, which Hamfast brewed in the winter and sweetened with honey in early spring, and the cider he’d brought from the Prancing Pony after that.

When they were full, Bilbo cleared the table and put out clean plates and cutlery for dessert, and Thorin took up the harp, which he’d spent so much of the evening tuning, and plucked out a jaunty reel that Bilbo was certain he’d heard Bofur sing on their travels. At his urging, Thorin sang a song in Khuzdul, a rousing drinking song that Bilbo had definitely heard Fili and Kili bellow at the top of their lungs when they were in their cups, but which Thorin sang in his low, sweet voice, filling the warm kitchen with the sound.

Bilbo clapped profusely and served them small cups of wine when he was done, and then there was fresh cream with newly grown strawberries for dessert, along with the honey cakes fried quickly in butter, and pears, stewed whole in red wine.

“I shall never move again,” Thorin declared when their plates were clear, and Bilbo laughed.

Thorin picked up the harp again while Bilbo put the dishes in the sink and resolved to deal with them in the morning, and he settled back into his chair with a cup of cider and listened to Thorin play.

“Will you play one of our midsummer songs?” He asked, after a while of quiet, “it sounds something like this.” He hummed it, as best as he could.

“And there’s a counter-melody just under it, that sounds like this,” he said, and hummed that part as Thorin carefully picked out the first tune on the harp.

“Like that?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo nodded and smiled. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He could almost see, with his eyes shut, the Party Tree and the maypole, the tables full of food and feasting Hobbits; smell the tang of pipeweed and cider, and hear the sound of feet stamping in line, and the musicians playing their hearts out.

“Just like that,” Bilbo said. “Would you like to dance?” He opened his eyes, and flushed at the tender look on Thorin’s face. “It’s a courtship song, that one. For all the new couples. I never had anyone to dance it with, but I used to wish for someone special of my own, so we could join the couples dancing.”

“I’d love to dance,” Thorin said, and he put the harp down, and bowed elegantly to Bilbo in the Dwarvish custom, then hummed the song Bilbo had taught him, and put his arms around Bilbo’s waist and followed the steps carefully, humming all the while.

“I’m very glad to have you here,” Bilbo said into Thorin’s chest as they swayed together at the close of the song, in the kitchen at Bag End, below the Hill, where his ancestors had lived for generations, far away from their mountain home.

“There is nowhere else I would rather be,” Thorin said, and spun him around the kitchen floor for a reprise.

_\- fin -_


End file.
